


missing you (is all i am)

by dustbottle



Series: Andreil: Into The Future [1]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Andrew Minyard Has Feelings, Angst, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Mental Health Issues, POV Andrew Minyard, Post-Canon, Reunions, Soft Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-03 06:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12742830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustbottle/pseuds/dustbottle
Summary: After graduating college, Andrew starts his professional Exy career as goalie for the Boston Rebels. Meanwhile, Neil is in his fifth and final year at Palmetto State University. Being apart turns out to be harder than either of them expected, and adjusting is a struggle.When Neil visits Andrew in Boston, things come to a head.





	missing you (is all i am)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from “Love You Hate You Miss You” by Elizabeth Scott:  
>  _“But the past couple_  
>  _of days I’ve missed you so much it felt like missing you_  
>  _is all I am.”_
> 
> This is a prequel to [Minyard-Josten: A Rivalry For The Ages](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11214843), [Blossom Under Kindness](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11438940), [The Self I Am](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11877519), and [a battle, a war, a growing up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15303666). It can be read separately, but I would recommend reading the other parts too. 
> 
> Trigger warnings: description of mental health issues.

Andrew has been feeling restless all day, fidgety and off-balance, tension scraping at the back of his throat and humming distractingly under his skin. The quiet of his empty apartment, usually a calm counterbalance to the endless buzzing of his thoughts, is pressing in on him from all sides, treacherous and thickly oppressive.

Thinking of Bee's calm smile and clear voice, Andrew tries to ground himself, tries to distract himself from the blaring spectacle of his own mind, but nothing can hold his interest for long. Practice barely keeps him engaged on a good day; today the minutes drag on, syrup-slow and unbearable. His apartment is as clean as it will ever be. His books are all boring. There's nothing on tv except the NCAA Exy highlights he already memorized the first time around – Neil scoring an impossible goal against the Bearcats and grinning fiercely behind the grate of his helmet, effortless and unstoppable. There is, quite literally, nothing else Andrew can think of doing to stop himself from drifting – and it's not enough.

When the deafening silence finally gets too much, Andrew gathers his keys and phone, slides on his shoes, and closes his apartment door carefully behind himself. He takes the stairs down to the underground garage at a measured pace, refusing to be rushed even if he is the one doing the rushing. Pulling out of his space and onto the road tastes a little like victory and a little like defeat.

The familiar growl of the Maserati helps ease some of his tension as Andrew speeds down the highway. He barely pays attention to the road, switching lanes without checking his mirrors and blithely ignoring the furious honking behind him. As he follows the overhead signs to his destination, he determinedly swallows down the unfamiliar flutter of nerves coming alive in his gut.

It's been exactly one month, three weeks and five days since Andrew graduated and four weeks and three days since he left Neil at Palmetto and moved to Boston to join his new team for pre-season training – if anyone is counting, which Andrew is not. Though he talks to Neil on the phone almost every day, they haven't seen each other since.

Adjusting to life without Neil's steady presence by his side, trusting him without question and sleeping next to him and gently needling him into caring, has been more of a struggle than Andrew anticipated. In Neil's absence, Andrew feels strangely untethered, smaller and emptier and _less_ somehow than he has in years.

He hadn't expected to mind the silence, either; he never got enough of it in the cramped space of their shared dorm, used to wish for nothing but to be left alone. This is different, though – _he_ is different, in a way he doesn’t quite understand, and it sets his teeth on edge. In the unchanging stillness of his empty apartment, his thoughts are quick to turn muddled and chaotic, reminiscent enough of his time on medication that it turns his stomach.

Andrew pulls into the airport parking lot with too much time to spare. He parks the car across two spaces and gets out, crossing over to Arrivals without bothering to look both ways.

The airport is annoyingly loud and annoyingly overcrowded as always, but this is the first time Andrew feels almost grateful for it; the unrelenting flow of nameless people gives him something to occupy his thoughts other than the gnawing uncertainty of the rest of the day. Standing off to the side to avoid being jostled, he watches the crowd, studies the reuniting families and scruffy backpackers and harried businesspeople in too-slick suits with careful detachment; the unthreatening normality of it stops him from getting lost inside the maze of his own treacherous mind.

Neil is wearing a ridiculous beanie when he arrives, obviously trying to evade attention by hiding his hair and the scars on his face as much as possible. He needn't have bothered; in his faded, oversized hoodie and threadbare sweats he could not look less like the attention-grabbing striker from the Exy highlights.

In the moments before Neil spots him and hurries over, Andrew is struck by how pale and wan he looks, the customary blankness of his expression amplified by the ghost of exhaustion behind his eyes; the cracks in Neil's mask may not have shown on television last night, but they are more than obvious in the unforgiving glare of the overhead lights. Andrew silently looks him up and down, scanning for new hurts and changes and coming up blank; concern is a thorn in his side, sharp and disconcertingly familiar.

Neil comes to a stop a safe distance away, knowing not to touch him the way he always seems to know somehow, and Andrew is relieved and frustrated at the same time.

"Hey," Neil says, and smiles with his whole face, the first rays of sun after a storm; and just like that, Andrew feels warmer than he has in four weeks and three days, and that is – a lot. Relief slowly unfurls in the pit of his stomach; brittle indifference crumbles in its wake. Suddenly not quite trusting his voice not to waver, Andrew just nods sharply and turns on his heel to head toward the exit. The sound of Neil falling silently into step behind him is worryingly reassuring.

The ride from the airport back to the apartment is quiet. Neil doesn't speak, seemingly content just to sit and watch Andrew drive; Andrew feels his eyes on the side of his face but doesn't comment, watching the road with deliberate attention instead.

When they get to the apartment, Neil still isn't talking, and Andrew has had about enough. Tossing his keys carelessly in the general direction of his side table, he watches Neil watch him, watches the way he looks drawn and half-lost standing in the too-sterile hallway, and decides to tackle the issue the only way he knows how – head-on.

"Talk," he orders, ignoring the concern churning in his gut as he gestures to Neil's tired face, stark and shadowed with exhaustion.

"I'm fine," Neil says automatically, and winces when Andrew glares; he means it, too, or thinks he does. He wouldn't lie, not to Andrew. That might be the worst part.

"Spit it out, Neil," Andrew just says, his voice flat, playing at impassiveness. It's harder than he thought it would be, harder than it used to be, and Andrew is so tired of the demons chasing him, chasing them both, but what else can he do?

Neil stays silent for a long time, jutting his chin, his jaw working; he bleeds raw emotion all over the place even as he fights to keep it contained. Andrew waits him out, patient and remote.

Suddenly, Neil's shoulders sag. "I haven’t been sleeping," he says, all in a rush, like it's his fault, like admitting it is weakness, and Andrew is tired, tired, tired.

"It's not a big deal. I didn't want to bother you with it." Neil fidgets in place, worrying absently at the fraying sleeves of his hoodie, and Andrew shifts on his feet, hating him, hating the uncertainty flickering under his skin. He has no idea how to deal with any of this. He hates that, too.

Neil has obviously been trying to protect him by suffering in silence, like the idiotic martyr he is, but the effort is entirely misguided; Andrew doesn't need or want Neil's protection. What's more, he can't bear the thought of being important enough to Neil to even trigger his ridiculous protective instincts – not when he is barely hanging on himself.

Before, Andrew would have withdrawn within himself, aloof and untouchable; somehow that no longer seems like a viable option. Neil is here, with him, hollow-eyed and drawn but utterly familiar, not asking for anything but needing it just the same, needing _him_ , and Andrew wants to give him everything.

The straightforward enormity of that realisation still manages to leave him breathless, even after all these years; Andrew suspects that will never change. Wanting anything at all is dangerous, terrifying, unthinkable, but that doesn’t change the facts. He wants to give Neil everything he has, wants to return his bare-boned honesty in kind, wants to hold on and never let go.

Grasping at the familiar, he falls back on their old game. A transaction, simple and fair; a truth for a truth.

"I'm..." Andrew says, and falters, curls his hands into fists. He's awkward in his own skin, hesitant and defensive, but it doesn't matter; vulnerability is not easy, but it is vital. He tries again.

“I’m… struggling,” he finally forces out, teeth clenched and heart in his throat. It’s not nearly enough, the words too small and pathetically inadequate; Neil nods anyway, his face softening in wordless, pitiless, perfect understanding. He shifts close but doesn’t reach out, knowing what it costs Andrew to admit even this much; when he speaks, his voice is low and soft, completely at odds with the diamond-hard flash of his eyes.

"I missed you," Neil says, and smiles; a dismantled gun; a knife wrapped in lace.

“How can you say that,” Andrew bites back, too close to a whine; he feels exposed, ripped apart and raw. _How can you want me_ , he wants to say, but doesn’t. He watches the way Neil’s expression flickers and breaks open, somehow knowing what he didn’t have the words to say, and it’s too much – Andrew hates this, hates how much Neil knows him, hates how much he has started to rely on Neil’s steadying presence to halt the nauseating spiral of his thoughts. He digs his nails hard into the palms of his hands and says nothing, powerless to stop the self-destructive cadence of his weary mind. He looks up again at the sound of Neil’s voice.

“Because it's the truth,” Neil tells him, trusting and honest and harsh, and just like that, the resistance breaks apart. The sudden absence of it leaves Andrew reeling, fear-bright and breathless with elation.

It may be stupid to put his shattered heart on the line again, he may feel desperately unworthy of trust or kindness, but this is still real; Neil chose him, has kept choosing him through fire and pain and blood, and Andrew is choosing Neil. Now. Tomorrow. Until the bitter end, violent and grim as it will probably be.

This is it. _This is it._ The knowledge is equal parts terrifying and strangely reassuring. Andrew takes a deep breath and meets Neil’s gaze.

Neil is leaning close, his eyes warm and intent as they search Andrew’s face, and Andrew is suddenly itching to touch. "Yes or no?" he asks, soft and low, and watches the way Neil wilts with relief.

“It’s always yes with you, Andrew,” Neil tells him, and Andrew’s heart skips twenty beats consecutively just like it always does. For once, he doesn’t bother challenging Neil’s words. They feel right, somehow. They feel true. When he leans in, Neil meets him halfway.

Had the concept of home still meant anything to Andrew, then kissing Neil would feel like coming home. Neil makes a breathy sound against his mouth and melts into the kiss, honey-warm and impossibly sweet; Andrew curls a hand around the back of Neil’s neck and draws him close, close, close.

When they break apart to catch their breath, minutes or days or years later, Andrew starts trailing kisses across Neil’s freckled forehead, down the bridge of his nose, lingering on his smoothly scarred cheeks; he moves lower to kiss a line down the exposed arch of Neil’s throat, feels his thundering pulse against his lips, and Neil gasps and gasps and lets him.

Andrew sucks a careful bruise into the pale skin of Neil’s neck, quietly relishing his hitching little breaths and trembling sighs. Neil is so delightfully responsive, so _easy_ for him, hazy-eyed and already flushed with pleasure. He’s fucking gorgeous like this, and Andrew is burning up.  

He wants to kiss him again, and so he does, licking and biting into Neil’s mouth with something close to desperation; Neil makes a choked sound in the back of his throat and follows his lead. When Andrew taps two fingers against Neil’s wrist in wordless permission, Neil hums and reaches up immediately to tangle careful fingers in his hair. He’s clearly as desperate for something to hold onto as he always is, and yet he never pushes, never makes demands or asks too much. Even now he doesn’t pull, just cradles the back of Andrew’s head with absurd gentleness, content with whatever Andrew can give him. The knowledge is a bright light in Andrew’s wary chest.

He captures Neil’s lips again, softer this time, and it’s so good, almost too good, almost too much, so much it hurts; Andrew never wants to stop, wants Neil so fiercely that it steals his breath. He feels Neil smile against his lips, and it’s real and whole and everything. It’s everything. It’s _everything_.

Neil is the one to break the kiss, pulling back but not moving out of reach. He stays close, loose-limbed and connected, pressing his forehead to Andrew’s and smiling, small and serious. He doesn’t move his hands away, and neither does Andrew; they stand together in comfortable silence, folded into each other in the loosest approximation of a hug.

Hugging is not something they do often, or ever, really, but it’s not– unpleasant. Andrew leans into Neil a little, letting him take some of his weight, finding his limits and then stretching them, not a punishment but an exercise in trust, a confirmation of belonging. And it’s standing like this, with Neil, with the heat of Neil’s body soaking steadily into his frozen core, with the scent of his crappy soap floating around and suffusing them both, that Andrew’s battered mind is finally, finally still.

Five years ago, four years ago, even three years ago, Andrew could never have imagined allowing anyone this close, touching him like this, _seeing_ him; yet this is still real. If that much can change in a few years, maybe eventually the rest can, too; maybe the two of them can grow into more, slow and steady and together. They have time, after all, and patience has always been one of Andrew’s few virtues.

"When it gets bad again," he says into the crook of Neil's shoulder, neatly ignoring the hypocrisy of his own statement, "you tell me." He keeps his tone flat and firm; it's not a request. Neil just nods in reply, searching Andrew’s face for permission before seeming to sag into him, bleeding relief and exhaustion in equal measure. Andrew easily takes his weight; simultaneously, he braces himself for what he knows is coming. The opening he left is too obvious, and Neil is not the type to leave him be – not like this.

He’s proven right within seconds. It’s pathetically predictable, except for the way it fills Andrew with curious warmth when Neil looks up and calmly meets his gaze.

"You know the same goes for you, Andrew,” Neil says, and he sounds serious, sounds deliberate in a way that almost undoes Andrew right then and there. Some final piece of him shifts into place at Neil’s words. And the thing is – coming from Neil, it doesn’t sound like such an impossible thing, to trust. To reach out. To share the burden. Andrew turns the idea over and over in his head, mulling it over; hope is an unfamiliar flame in his chest.

When he stays silent, Neil goes on, “If you can’t talk to me, then talk to Bee, or Renee.” He pauses, considering, then adds, “Or even Kevin.” Andrew scoffs at that, rolling his eyes, and Neil’s face crinkles with amusement; Andrew is surprisingly unsurprised by the violent pull of affection in his gut.  

“Or maybe you should get a cat,” Neil says, grinning, and that is – well. It’s a joke, obviously, a throw-away comment, obviously, it’s ridiculous, _obviously_ , but it’s–

It’s something to think about.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I really hope you enjoyed! Kudos and comments are very much appreciated, I love every single one! You can also find me on [tumblr](http://www.dustbottle.tumblr.com), come and say hi!
> 
> Also, if you have any ideas for future instalments of this series, let me know in the comments. They are always welcome!


End file.
